Tempus Fugit
by 0positiv
Summary: They say your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die... WARNING: Some suicide-y themes as well as mentions of child abuse and some carnage, you were warned ;)


They say when you're about to die your life flashes past your eyes. He thought about that setting up his table, lining the few items important to him up perfectly, a suicide note without words. How fast would it flash by, would he have time to appreciate it? Would it really be his whole life? All those years filled with death, and blood and pain? Would it be in colour or black and white? Would it have sound?

He loaded the gun, shaking off those useless thoughts. They were only a way of procrastinating, of putting off the inevitable. What use was buying himself some more minutes? He put the gun on the table again, picking up the stop watch. It felt so natural in his hand, like an extension of his arm, all those times he'd put it into his pocket in the morning, all the times he's taken it out to time their work. He had forgotten how to live without it. He knew exactly how long it took him to get ready in the mornings, how long to get to the archive, how long to start up his computer or shut it down at night.

And now he'd find out how long it would take his brain to shut down after he's fired the shot. As a boy he had been fascinated by the stories of the heads of the victims of the French Revolution blinking their eyes after the guillotine had done its gruesome job, of Mary Antoinette blushing as the executioner showed her head off to the watching crowd. He'd read open-mouthed about the notorious pirate Klaus Störtebeker, running past all his men after his head had been cut off. It was just a legend but he'd admired the man for the dedication to his crew. Sacrificing himself for the mere promise that every man he could walk past would be spared. The spiteful executioner tripping the pirate up before he passed the last man had made him chuckle with dark enjoyment. The world was cruel like that. He'd known all about that from the time he was 8.

He started the watch, letting it count up from 30 seconds, planning to pull the trigger at 60. Watching the little cruel hand move time seemed to expand.

_31…_

His mother had come to his room on his eighth birthday, hugging him with tears in her eyes, never saying a word as she held him close for a few moments. He had been confused, frightened, and hugged her back as tight as he could.

_32…_

His father, standing in front of the luminous fireplace, more shadow then man, a glass of some amber liquid in his hand, swirling it around lazily. His speech had been precise, clipped, the way it always was when he'd tried to not appear as drunk as he really was. He'd told him about his future, about his duty, his inheritance, his fate. He made it sound grand and scary and inevitable and an honour. Only a part of that had been true.

_33..._

His first cover up, it had been less gruesome then it could have been, or maybe he'd just focused too much on the artistry of it to really see it. Red blood on virgin white snow, little droplets leading to a bigger lake of it. The warmth had partially melted the snow. Her white skin, white dress, blending in with the background. Her black hair spread out behind her like a halo, dragging up a memory, a picture in a book...

_34…_

White as snow, red as blood, black as ebony. His mother had loved to read him fairy tales, her voice making them come alive in his mind. Dwarfs, witches, monsters, princesses and the noble men who saved them. His father had reluctantly allowed their indulgence in those fantasies, thinking they'd prepare him somewhat for his future…

_35…_

There had been crows in the barren trees, silent dark shadows, like mourners at a grave, like Odin's ravens keeping watch over the human world. Their solemn dark forms unimpressed by the men in grey disturbing the snow, carrying away the ghastly angel underneath their trees, getting rid of any drop of blood they found. He had stopped his watch, smiled at their swiftness then cast one last look over the disturbingly calm scene. Then, as the crows took flight with mournful cries, he'd walked away.

_36…_

The first time his father had raised his hand at him he'd been too shocked to even cry. He'd just stood there, holding his reddening cheek, staring at his raging parent, unable to comprehend what had just happened. His father had always been distant, but never violent before. But once the demon alcohol had taken possession of him his hand had slipped more and more often.

_37…_

There had been calm times in his life as well, few and far between but there. A spring day a few years ago, sitting in Arthur's garden, the prim roses in full bloom around them, displaying the whole wastefulness of nature. All that effort for just a few days of splendour. They had sat in comfortable silence listening to the humming of the bees, sipping tea. Arthur seemed a different man in his garden. He fitted in there, grass-stained trousers, dirt-stained shirt and smudges on his cheeks. He fitted in here in a much more natural way then at the archive. He was a man of life, not death, a rare creature in their department where so much was doom and gloom. Arthur smelled of earth and grass and living plants whereas he only smelled of old paper and dead bodies. The older man was a ray of light to make his darkness easier to bear.

_38…_

She had smiled at him the first time he came to check up on her. She remembered him and went to hug him, no longer the scared little wraith he'd dragged out of that slaughterhouse of a tunnel and soaked in soap. Her foster parents had watched them suspiciously, this stiff and uncomfortable man, awkwardly keeping the child an arms length away, greeting her formally and asking about her wellbeing.

_39…_

The first time he'd broken a bone his father had fidgeted and awkwardly tried to comfort him. The physician had laughed about his tale of adventures and searching for fairies in trees. He'd had a cast on his leg for weeks, making life rather more boring. The next few times he'd had a cast had been some years later, and this time there were no fairies involved, only a demon, and his father had been remorseful and made excuses and told him to be brave. He'd taken him to five different doctors lest one of them get suspicious.

_40…_

Natasha once broke her ankle jumping off a swing. She had been trying to prove to some boy from school that she could jump farther then him. She had out-jumped him, she told him proudly, by at least 10 feet. He'd calmly told her that that was quite an exaggeration and that she should have taken a ruler and measured it accurately before boasting. She had laughed and called him a boring office guy. She'd thought it a very clever insult. He'd made sure her foster parents would not let her break any more bones, very sure.

_41…_

In school there had been a girl who'd fancied him. She'd make a point of talking to him, about uninteresting things mostly, just senseless chatter when he really wanted to concentrate on their school work. She had blushed and fluttered her eyelashes and played with her hair. He'd thought her highly irritating and mentally inventoried their chemistry lab for the most appropriate poison.

_42…_

In his last year of school he'd fancied a girl. He'd been confused and embarrassed by his interest in her, by the way his eyes always seemed to drift into her direction just to dart away as soon as she felt his gaze on her and turned his way. He never talked to her, he went out of his way too avoid ever having to do any assignments with her. And of course he never bought her flowers on Valentine's Day and put them on her table at night with a drawing of her and a dead butterfly in a frame. That would have been rather unlike him. She never found out who her secret admirer was anyway, and he never saw her again after graduation.

_43…_

The first time Natasha had an admirer he found himself loading his gun. She had called him to tell him about this boy who left flowers on her doorstep and asked her out for an ice cream. She said he was cute and polite and not at all like the other boys. He watched them eat their ice cream and he watched him walk her home. He put the gun away when the boy kissed her cheek shyly and left. That one she could take care of herself.

_44…_

He should have had a more difficult time at school then he'd actually had. He was posh and polite and not interested in parties or girls. But he was good at all kinds of sports so his weirdness was excused and he was grudgingly accepted by the other children. The boys were always clapping him on the back with face joviality, talking about girls and asking when he'd finally find one for himself. They'd ask him to do their homework and he'd politely but pointedly refuse, fixing them with a stare and a no-nonsense expression. Sometimes he thought they were scared of him. At least a little.

_45…_

The little explosion in the chemistry lab had not been his fault, not at all. He had just been trying to make the others stop setting fire to random chemicals. He had warned them not to throw the sodium down the drain… They'd all got detention and he spent it mostly glaring at the others.

_46…_

The first time he had to bail her out of jail she had been caught shoplifting. He found himself wishing she'd still be the uncomplicated little girl she'd been before she became a teenager who went through foster families faster then lightning. He had quietly and calmly told her off for breaking the law and told her he'd not bail her out next time.

_47…_

The third time he had to bail her out he took her to the high security women's prison. He told her stories about the grim looking women with their ugly tattoos and prematurely aged cruel faces. He promised her he'd let her rot in here if she ever got convicted. She'd started a conversation with one of the guards about prison riots, completely unimpressed.

_48…_

When Bobby burned his legs he called an ambulance and went to the hospital with him. Someone had to keep an eye on the big fool lest he say something wrong. The nurses thought him simple minded and sweet, the doctors were dubious of the story involving an iron and a grown man who did not know you're supposed to take the slacks off before ironing them. It seemed ironic that the one time he told a true story people were disinclined to believe him.

_49…_

The campers had had no chance. The indifferent moon smiled down at the clearing, not full any more and tinged red, as his men collected limbs and clothes and ripped tents. No amount of search turned up one of the heads and one leg. It seemed the Type 3 had taken a doggy bag from the buffet.

_50…_

His first and only experience with drugs had been after his graduation party. The sports team had practically dragged him along as they'd gone off to hide behind the gym, giggling like girls, drunk on alcohol and the knowledge that school was behind them now. They'd ridiculed him and laughed at him until he'd taken the joint and inhaled. He'd had to cough so violently he was nearly sick. It had made them laugh even harder. He'd slowly and deliberately taken the offending thing and ground it underfoot, wishing it had been their heads.

_51…_

He had never understood the appeal of phoning someone while in an advanced state of inebriation but it seemed Natasha did. He could hardly make out a word she said and what he could make out worried him. There was chatter and music in the background and the sound of breaking glass. When he finally had coaxed her location out of her he was fuming. Jumping into his car he hoped she'd have a gigantic hangover the next day.

_52…_

His mother's funeral had been a quiet affair. She had not had any family apart from him. She'd been an only child, her parents long dead, aunts and uncles she'd never even met were spread out all over the world. There had only been her husband and her son, her twin stars, her reasons for living. He had watched her slowly deteriorate after his father's death. No matter how big a bastard Rook Senior had been his wife had loved him to the end and his death had broken her heart. He was just glad his mother never knew what he had done the night before his father's funeral.

_53…_

The house had been quiet as the proverbial tomb, not a sound to be heard. A house in mourning, everyone grief stricken, everyone but him. Sneaking through the hallway and down the stairs he had the surreal feeling of being the only one left alive. He had not dared take his torch for fear his mother would see the light shine in under her bedroom door but he would have known his way around the house blindfolded. A nearly full moon shining in through the windows made it very easy to find the closed casket, to remove the flowers and open the lid.

_54…_

When she was 10 Natasha asked to see her parents' grave. She tormented him with questions all the way to the cemetery. She spoke of things he'd rather she wouldn't remember at all. Of monsters and the time she's spent in that tunnel, of him coming to her rescue, she spoke of seeing her parents' bodies and hiding away in fear they'd wake up with eyes as black as coal. She talked about the angels Mr. Barrow at school had told her about, the ones taking the souls of the dead to heaven. She said there was no heaven, no god, and no angels. Only demons. Mr. Barrow had written a letter to her foster parents about that, she confessed. They were upset. Was he upset? He said "no". Did he believe in God? He said "yes", secretly meaning "no". But remembering the effect holy symbols had on Type 2s always made him doubt his conviction in the matter.

_55…_

He never visited his parents' grave. He told himself that he had no time for such sentimental foolishness but if he were honest with himself the reason was that the memory of his father was still a sore point. He had wanted to make him proud, had wanted to make the punishments stop. He wanted to believe that it wasn't his own fault that his father had turned to drink and violence but with the unreasonable stubbornness of a child a part of his mind still clung to that thought. He feared if he went to their graves he'd scratch his father's name from the stone with his bare hands for making his childhood a living hell of fear and disappointment.

_56…_

Christmas had been a rather formal and stiff affair in his childhood home. No singing of carols and if it hadn't been for his mother putting her foot down for once there wouldn't have been a tree either. He only got one present a year and it had to be approved of by his father. So when he was 10 he got an ornate wooden cross, at 11 he got some stakes carved from church pews, at 12 he got the gun he now held in his hand. His mother had set in her armchair by the fire as he unwrapped it, face hard as stone but tears in her eyes. He was glad she didn't know the gun would end his life so many years from that day.

_57…_

He never bought Natasha Christmas presents but he always remembered her birthday. He wrote her a card wishing her well, struggling to find words that did not sound like he was writing a report. Struggling to not sound like the stranger he felt he was. When she turned 16 he bought her a silver cross pendant on a silver chain. She wrote him a letter of thanks back for the first few years. After he'd sent the cross she did not write a letter. She turned up on his doorstep and told him she wanted to work for him, that surely she was old enough now.

_58…_

He had seen each of his men off personally on their final days. He had gripped their hands, put a hand on their shoulders, seen the sadness in their eyes and the uncertainty. He'd tried to find encouraging words, tried to make them believe that he could still make this right, that there was still hope, that there was still time. Surely Alistair would come to his senses. He had joked that it was hardly worth the time to say good bye because they would be back here before they'd started to enjoy their free time. He told them not to grow lazy because he would not suffer dalliance once they came back from their enforced vacation. They all knew he was lying, they all knew he was desperate, and some, the ones who'd known him the longest, feared his desperation. He saw it in their faces. Maybe they were right to fear it. Would any of them attend his funeral?

_59…_

His phone rang, shattering his tense silence, dispersing the memories and ripping him back into the present. _Saved by the bell, how very clichéd. _

_60._


End file.
